


The World, At Its Heart

by Furare



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ex Paradisum, Extended Bio, F/F, POV Female Character, Romance, Storium, Time Skips, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:05:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5842696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furare/pseuds/Furare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why acclaimed travel writer Zehra Demirkan never writes her memoirs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World, At Its Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a 950 word bio for the Storium character I was creating for _Ex Paradisum_ , which is kind of ridiculous. Then I realised that what I'd actually written was an original short story about a relationship, presented in round-the-world snapshots. As Zehra herself would probably say, it's having the inspiration that matters, in the end.

I write in English these days, and for that I can only blame her. That is, when I write at all. I am slower than I used to be, and I do not know why. My inspiration has gone, and I can only hope that the strange desire to come here is a sign that it begins to come back.  
  
A book about America, my publishers say. That will sell well. But I do not care. All that matters to me is that for the first time in… too long I actually want to write something.  
  
I even tried to write a memoir, at my lowest point, but she is written through my past, my history, the same way she is written through my heart and soul.  
  
My life, my work. What would any of it have been without her?  
  
**Dresden Cathedral, March 2002**  
  
It is all too new, what will be the great love of my life, and I do not yet dare say it. Instead I stare up at the ceiling of a building once destroyed by war, and think of how much life and effort was wasted here. I cannot lie; I am drawn to war stories. The drama thrills my heart. And yet the tragedy always moves me, can bring me to tears. I feel it all so keenly.  
  
There is a sermon, I do not remember what, and she explains to me the parable as we walk through the aisles and admire the walls. In English; she speaks German, but not well. Besides, it is not the words that matter, but her voice, the way she speaks. A scholar born.  
  
"It is interesting," I say, and mean it.  
  
**Prague, November 2003**  
  
I have contracted some disease from the Metro — these filthy Czech trains — and we cannot afford a doctor. She nurses me devotedly in our cheap hotel room, watches over me while I dream fitfully and run a fever. I dream of angels and war, of trumpets and flaming swords, of blood and singed feathers. I call her an angel when I wake, briefly.  
  
She kisses me on the forehead. "You are the angel, _Liebling_. Now sleep."  
  
To this day I do not know whether that was part of the dream.  
  
**Tampa Bay, FL, May 2005**  
  
I want to ride all of the rollercoasters, even the wooden one that she swears must be too dangerous to pass health and safety. (The British, they have a strange obsession with this, I have learned.) She does not understand. It is not adrenaline I crave. They... it feels like flying. That is why. I do not like aeroplanes, but these I do. I cannot explain.  
  
"We'll do the others," she says. "But not the wooden one."  
  
I agree. Love is compromise. And that one does not even turn upside-down, anyway.  
  
**Paris, July 2008**  
  
The City of Love. That is what I would call my book, if I were a hack author, or if I had let my publishers make my decisions for me. But I do not do that, not after the first time.  
  
It is romantic, though. That is not something I usually would admit to caring about, because romance is not for people like me and her. Books and films are not made about us, though if fiction were my _métier_ , perhaps that is what I would write about.  
  
The hotel room is not as cheap as the one in Prague. I have more money now, and so does she. There is champagne, even though it is a waste of money. Why not? We are on holiday here, and we are adults, and we can do what we want. _Love_ is for people like us.  
  
We do not go outside much this week.  
  
**Singapore, January 2010**  
  
To people used to European rainfall, the wet season is simply insane.  
  
We run through the streets, giggling as though we are ten years younger or more. I get distracted by the food stands that are still open, despite the rain, even though it is one in the morning. She tugs me away from most of them, but there are so many.  
  
"I am writing a book," I say, with dignity. "I must try as many of these places as possible, so that I can write about them."  I pause and look up at the sky. "Besides, it's pissing down out here."  
  
She laughs at me, but she gives in.  
  
**London, September 2013**  
  
"This is where I grew up," she tells me, and I look around at the street we are standing in, and I think of how different it is from my childhood home. Years and years ago, at the beginning of it all, we were there in Dresden together, and now we are here in London, in this quiet street with its pretty houses, a village in the centre of one of the world's largest cities.  
  
This place is nothing like where I grew up. I do not belong here. But then, she does not belong here either. That is why she left, after all.  It was not only to be with me.  
  
We both feel out of place, and we leave soon after.  
  
**Los Angeles, CA, February 2016**  
  
I sit at the desk in my writing room, thinking of the book I have promised the publisher. In the living room, the TV is playing. She is enjoying the last few hours of freedom in her weekend. Soon I will join her there.  
  
Did you expect a tragic ending? That she died, or simply that she abandoned me?  
  
No, _that_ would be worth reading. But a story where two people fall in love and stay together, move to California and live happily ever after? As my publishers would tell me, if I had ever sent this manuscript to them, it would not sell at all. After all, who would want to read it?


End file.
